


not by blood, but by choice

by see_addy_write



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Families of Choice, Gen, M/M, Misunderstandings, mentions of non-con healing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:00:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22248271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/see_addy_write/pseuds/see_addy_write
Summary: Max has Michael and Alex over for dinner after his resurrection. It goes better than one might expect.[written for RNM Week; just backing up my tumblr fic here!]
Relationships: Max Evans & Alex Manes, Max Evans & Michael Guerin, Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 11
Kudos: 161





	not by blood, but by choice

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: written for the Day 2 prompt from Roswell New Mexico Week 2019, which was family. sorry if y'all thought this was something new! i just realized that i actually like this fic & don't want it to be lost to the abyss that is tumblr. 
> 
> thanks to @soberqueerinthewild, as always, for listening to me whine & letting me borrow her idea of Isobel taking self-defense classes! 
> 
> right. Max + Malex fic, set six months post-finale. enjoy!

“So, Isobel is _where_ , again?” Michael asks, his elbows on Max’s kitchen counter to either side of a full plate. Max is damn good at using the grill on his patio, and Michael’s never one to pass up free food. If he’d known that it would end up just being himself, his brother, and his newly official boyfriend, however, he’s not so sure he would have accepted the invitation. 

It’s not that Michael hates spending time with Max. He really doesn’t, anymore -- not since the other man died. Six months of sharp-edged grief and directionless anger over the actions of a dead man had been awful, and Michael can’t pretend that he’s not glad to have his brother’s steadying presence back in his head. They’ve been spending more time together in the three weeks since Max has been back, usually involving food and shitty television, and, most importantly, Isobel’s presence as a buffer. He and Max don’t know how to spend uncomplicated, unplanned time together anymore, even after the residual anger and bitterness between them fades, and Alex’s presence seems to have made the awkwardness _worse._

And that shouldn’t be a surprise, shouldn’t be the smack in the face that it is, because Michael has known since before Max’s death that he thinks Michael should let Alex go to focus on a future in which he can be happy, as if a relationship with Alex can never be more than a reminder of the tragedies in their shared pasts. And Michael’s pretty sure that there’s a little bit of discomfort at the idea of Michael with a man, too, and he doesn’t want to touch _that_ particular idiocy with a ten-foot pole. He’s pretty sure Max won’t make it out of that conversation in one piece, and Michael doesn’t want Isobel and Liz on his ass for killing him again when they’d only just gotten him back. 

“Self-defense class,” Max says with a small sigh, glancing at Alex like he’s not sure how much he can say about the matter in front of him, despite the fact that he’s been involved in every step of the work to bring Max back and protect them all from the long-reaching arm of Project Shepherd. “She’s a little . . . focused.” 

Michael picks up what Max isn’t saying without any mental prodding, and he drops a hand from the counter to Alex’s good knee, squeezing for his own, selfish comfort. He gets a reassuring smile for his troubles, and Michael takes a moment to revel in how lucky he is that Alex was willing to give him another chance after every stupid fucking thing he’s done in the last year: dating Maria, trying to hide from his grief at the bottom of a bottle, and swinging first and asking questions later. Alex had been the one to drag him out of his self-imposed exile and help him to realize that Isobel needed someone, too, so he understands the worry Michael feels better than most anyone could. 

Michael would like to think that he’d pulled himself together enough to be there for his sister, but no amount of support had been enough to heal the gaping wounds Noah left in her soul. Max’s return helped, and her obsessive need to become more powerful has definitely eased in the past few weeks. She’s no longer practicing mind control on random passers-by, and she’s done blowing things up just because she can, a fact for which the entire town should be grateful. But Michael knows, just as Max does, that their sister is far from _fine_. Her laser focus has been turned from expanding her supernatural powers to physical self-defense now that Max is back with them, and it might be better for their anonymity, but no one is convinced that it’s better for Isobel. 

“She’s been through a lot,” Alex says, his voice level as he cuts through the moment of tension with his usual affability. He’s been eating steadily, and is sitting comfortably on one of the tall stools surrounding the kitchen counter, no hint of uncertainty in his posture, but Michael knows better. He’d asked at least three times on their way to Max’s if Michael was sure that he’d be welcome, and when he realized that Isobel wasn’t coming, the grip on Michael’s fingers had tightened to an almost painful degree. Even now, when Max lifts his chin and gives Alex a look, there’s an undeniable tension in the muscles beneath Michael’s hand. 

But Alex isn’t intimidated by Max. He wants to get along with him, Michael thinks, because they share all of the same friends and loved ones, and are at least tangentially _family_ , which means more to Alex than most people would be able to understand. That doesn’t mean he’s going to back down and show his throat, though, or let Max run roughshod over his opinions. Max doesn’t seem quite sure how to handle that; he’s been running the show to keep the three aliens safe for their entire lives, and Michael suspects he’s having a hard time adjusting to the fact that others had become just as involved in that goal while he was gone. But Alex is good at plans and strategies in a way that Max isn’t, and has more personal experience with trauma and healing than Michael cares to think about. His understanding of Isobel’s actions carry weight, whether Max wants to admit it or not. 

“No matter why she’s doing it, self-defense isn’t a bad way to help her build some confidence,” Alex continues, meeting Max’s gaze calmly across the table. “She’s got an expert teacher and other people in the class to make sure she doesn’t take it too far. It’s as safe as anything like that can be -- and I think we’d all rather she took out her frustrations on a punching bag instead of _people._ I really don’t think you need to worry about her; she’s just looking for a way to feel safe in her own skin again.”

They’ve talked about this before, Alex and Michael. It’s always been after nightmares of being forced to put Isobel’s body in a pod next to Max’s, or watching her being dragged away by scientists who caught her using her powers in obvious ways during her more reckless moments. It’s been Alex who’s gathered him close in the middle of the night and whispered reassurances and explained that recovery from trauma doesn’t always seem right or healthy to others, but Isobel has to learn to stand on her own again without interference from her friends and family. She has to learn what it means not to depend on anyone after years of leaning on Noah and his reputation to make a life for herself. Michael doesn’t pretend to understand, but he’s promised Alex -- and Isobel herself -- to give her some time and space to try. 

But Max has only been up and moving for three weeks, and he’s too mired in the guilt of sending his sister into such a tailspin to realize that he’s not doing her any favors by trying to smother her. But that’s Max; he’s always been too ready to do whatever it takes to protect them, no matter what the cost. That’s how they ended up covering up a murder and carrying that burden by themselves for over a decade. It’s why his friendship with Michael crumbled around them. It’s why he can never really feel safe -- and Michael’s tired of watching the same thing happen, again and again.

Max stabs a piece of chicken with a bit more violence than strictly necessary, but doesn’t make any move to eat it. “I’ve been worrying about Isobel since she fell out of her pod and into my arms when we were _seven_ ,” he says coldly. At some point, he’s shifted to sit up straighter in his chair, and crossed his arms over his chest while he stares, narrow-eyed, across the table at Alex. “She’s never had any interest in self-defense before. A taser and influencing minds has always been enough for her. So even if I _could_ stop worrying, I wouldn’t, because my sister is off the rails, and she needs help. And for the record? The fact that you’re dating Michael now does _not_ give you the right to tell me how to be there for my family.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence from all parties as the electricity in the room flickers and Max battles with himself to rein his powers back in. He seems just as shocked as the others about the words that have escaped his mouth, and Michael can’t quite wrap his head around the speed with which the conversation escalated. He gapes openly at Max, his blood on a slow boil. Who the hell does he think he is? Alex has been building a friendship with Isobel for half a year, while Max was gone. He’s listened to her cry, and even helped her find a decent self-defense class. Alex has been there for her, and for everyone else, while Max abandoned them for a moment of heroism that left them all fucking reeling -- and he’s going _there_? With Alex, who’d only been trying to help? Fuck no. 

“I’m sorry.” Max swallows heavily, his eyes sliding closed for a minute. The apology gives Michael the moment he needs to press pause on his impending explosion, and Alex looks genuinely poleaxed by the unexpected words. He’d been bracing for a blow-up, Michael realizes, taking in the challenging tilt to his chin and the glint of banked fire in his eyes. 

“That wasn’t -- I’m not --” Max trails off, running the palm of his hand over his face before opening his eyes and directing his words to both of them. “I don’t have the right to talk to you that way, Alex, and I should know better, by now, than to let my temper get the best of me.” He glances wryly toward Michael, who just raises an eyebrow, waiting. 

Alex doesn’t share Michael’s patience for whatever comes next. He pushes his plate off to the side of the table and leans forward, his expression inscrutable, but Michael can read the uncertainty in the tilt of his eyebrows and the tight line of his lips. He nudges his boyfriend’s knee with his own, trying to get him to look over, but Alex is focused on Max. 

“I know that you’ve been protecting them for most of your lives,” he says quietly, a strange solemnity in his voice that makes Michael want to wrap an arm around his shoulders and pull him into his side. Family is a difficult concept for Alex; he’s never had anyone willing to protect him from his father of any of the rest of life’s cruelties. And while Michael’s always wished for something more than Max and Isobel, some _one_ more, he knows that he’s damn lucky to have them. Alex knows it, too, and is trying to meet Max halfway, which is more than Michael would have ever asked of him. 

“You’re family, and I respect that. I’m not trying to tell you how to support Isobel, or to pretend that she’s doing fine when we all know better. I’ve just been where she’s been, at least a little.” Alex hesitates, and in a moment of prescience, Michael can tell what he’s about to say and opens his mouth to stop him, to tell him that he doesn’t need to reopen his own wounds just because Max is bleeding all over him. But before he gets the chance, Alex plows forward, as unfailingly brave as he’s always been. “Someone who was supposed to love me hurt me, too. It’s not the same, and I’m not naive enough to think I know exactly what she’s going through. But I do know that after something like that? After betrayal and feeling so completely out of control of your own life? It takes time to feel comfortable in your own skin again. Time, space, and support from people who love you.” 

Michael tangles his fingers with Alex’s, and soaks up the small smile he gets in return. If Max is anything but understanding and kind in the face of such an emotionally honest confession, not even the threat of Liz’s temper tantrum is going to stop him from punching his brother in the fucking face. Alex doesn’t often talk about his father, and Michael can count on one hand the amount of times he’s heard him admit that he needed help to begin healing the wounds left by years of abuse and unfounded hatred. If Max rewards that honesty with callous words or cruelty, Michael doesn’t care what their connection is -- Alex is his family, too, and doesn’t have many other people to protect him. That’s Michael’s job, and one he takes damn seriously. 

Thankfully, Max only nods slowly. There’s no way to be sure of what he already knows about Alex’s father, or the real reasons he went to war, but there’s a glimmer of understanding in his eyes that tells Michael he knows enough to tread carefully. “It turns out I’m not so great at protecting anyone,” he says dryly, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth. “Or taking good advice, apparently. I really am sorry -- you’re right. I need to let Isobel come to me, if that’s what she wants. It’s just harder than I expected, after all this time.” His smile is a sad, resigned thing, and Michael is irritated that it gets to him. Max deserves to feel some guilt and regret for what he’s done, and even if his death isn’t the cause of all of Isobel’s trauma, he needs to own the fact that he fucked up. 

Michael does his best to squash the thought. They haven’t talked about the moments leading up to Max’s death, or how any of them feel about it -- the three of them have simply slapped a bandage over the bleeding wound and done their best not to poke at it. Michael knows it won’t last forever; eventually, he’s going to lose it and tell Max exactly how much damage he’s done to all of them, not just Isobel, with his stupid stunt. He’s got plenty to answer for, and part of Michael wants to point it out, to bellow that he didn’t seem to care so much about protecting them when he was resurrecting Rosa Ortecho, that maybe he should have thought about how Isobel might feel -- but he doesn’t. This isn’t the time, not with so much already going on around them. 

Alex shakes his head, but some of the tension has dissipated from his face. “You don’t have to apologize. I get it. It’s hard to take advice from people you don’t really trust, and I know I don’t have yours, yet. But I really do just want to help, in whatever way I can. You might not think he and I are good for each other, but Michael’s the only family I’ve got, and you and Isobel are his, so . . .” he trails off, looking uncomfortable while trying to navigate complex emotions. Talking about how he feels and his own motivations is never going to be easy for Alex, even though he and Michael have gotten better at it is as they restarted their relationship. 

It’s hard to watch him push through the explanation, but Michael doesn’t jump in and try to help. He knows better; Alex is perfectly capable of expressing himself, and won’t appreciate an attempted subject change, no matter how awkward this one is. He shifts restlessly on the stool and kicks at the bottom of the counter in an effort to distract himself. The knowledge that Max doesn’t think the two of them should be together has weighed on Alex since Michael told him the story of how his hand was healed, and he knows that it’s better to get it all out in the open now, because if he has any say in the matter, Alex is sticking around for the rest of their lives. And if it helps him, or Max, to air their grievances, then Michael can deal with it. 

“What?” Max is staring at Alex, his expression twisted into obvious confusion. “Why would you think that?” There’s an obvious glimmer of hurt in the depths of his eyes that Michael doubts Alex can see. Max doesn’t usually bother to hide his emotions from his family, but with others, he tends to make more of an effort. “I’m not going to pretend that I know you very well, but I don’t have a problem with the two of you being together. I don’t know what Michael’s been telling you, but I’m not _actually_ a bigot.”

“Max,” Michael interrupts, rolling his eyes. “He’s not calling you a fucking homophobe, _relax._ I told him about what you said before you --” he waves a hand, still uncomfortable with blurting out the word ‘died’ in reference to his brother. Isobel had taken to using the word as a weapon, wielding it viciously every time Max tried to convince her to give up her relentless pursuit of power and self-confidence, every time his protective instincts became smothering and hard for her to deal with, but Michael can’t quite bring himself to do the same. Not when it’s still so fresh in his mind, and Max’s, too. 

Alex nods, for the first time looking uncomfortable. “It makes sense. I know that I haven’t been the most reliable person for Michael, so I understand that you might not want to listen to what I have to say about Isobel, but -” 

“Wait, wait, hold on a second,” Max interjects, directing his bewildered stare at Michael. “What did I say? I remember -- I remember the lightning, and killing Noah, but everything gets hazy, after that.” There’s a far-off look in his eyes as he struggles to put the pieces together, and Michael shifts on his stool and eventually stands, restless energy crawling beneath his skin. He’s recounted that night’s events for Alex, and for Liz, later, but this is the first time the subject has been broached with Max. It’s a hundred times worse; every word feels fraught with tension and buried emotion, and Michael doesn’t want this to escalate into a real fight. 

He can feel Alex’s eyes on him and knows that he’s going to have to answer, if only because Alex doesn’t have all of the details, and groans. This conversation feels like peeling a scab off of a nearly-healed wound, and it _hurts,_ but Michael can’t bring himself to stalk off and ignore it any longer. They need to talk about this, to get it all out in the open, and Michael refuses to restart a decade-long habit of storming off when he and Max argue. The two of them are damned good at hurting each other, at leaving when things get hard, but Isobel isn’t in a place to bring them back together, anymore. And call him selfish, but Michael has enjoyed having his brother back, these past three weeks. Things have been good between them, and losing that over something that Max doesn’t even remember clearly would be fucking stupid. Michael might be frustrated, might feel like shaking Max until his brain rattles around in his skull, but he’s still Michael’s family, and that’s so rare that he won’t entertain the idea of losing it again because of death _or_ stupid arguments. 

So he stops the restless pacing around the kitchen just behind Alex’s shoulder and flexes his newly-healed hand in pointed reminder of the conversation in the cave that Max can’t recall. He’s not ashamed to admit that he takes a little takes petty, vindictive pleasure in the way that Max flinches — he’s not awful enough to want Max to hurt, but Michael wants to make damn sure he remembers, the next time he’s hyped up on power and thinks he can play God, that’s never okay to irrevocably change someone’s body without their fucking explicit consent, even if he’s sure it’ll be an improvement. 

“You said to leave the past behind and look forward,” he says, and if the words drip with accusation, Michael thinks it’s justified. That had fucked him up, for a while. Those words had gotten in his head and under his skin, and burrowed even deeper when Isobel agreed with them -- and he and Alex had lost _months_ while Michael tried to follow their advice with Maria. “You wanted to get rid of my _reminder_.” Again, he flexes fingers that had been stiff and numb for the last decade, this time without really thinking about it. “And Isobel agreed, afterward, so --”

“You thought that meant I was telling you to give up on _Alex_?” Max interrupts abruptly, and Michael doesn’t understand the incredulousness in his voice. What the hell else could he have meant? But Max is staring at him, brows drawn and mouth open, and for a split second, Michael wishes that he could read the other man’s mind with Isobel’s ease. It’d be nice to know what Max is thinking, if only to get him to stop staring at Michael that way. 

“Let me get this straight,” Max says finally breaking the tense silence as he pushes away from the counter to stand. He runs his fingers through his short hair in a move that Michael recognizes from years of post-drunken brawl confrontations -- it’s the frustrated gesture that comes right before the agitated pacing in front of holding cell in the Sheriff’s office. With the pacing comes the ‘I’m so disappointed in you’ face that, despite all of Michael’s determination not to give a shit, always makes him feel a tug of guilt in the pit of his stomach. “You have never once listened to me before, about _anything_ , and _that’s_ where you decide to start?” 

Sure enough, the predicted pacing starts a second later, and Michael’s eyes narrow, his temper flaring hot and powerful in his chest. He’s glad Max isn’t dead, and he won’t deny it, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to start listening to the same old bullshit, especially when he hasn’t done anything wrong. 

“Do you need me to participate in this conversation, or is this where I’m supposed to shut up and listen to daddy like a good little boy?” Michael asks acerbically, his expression twisting into something bitter. “Fuck off, Max. I’ve listened to you before, and you know it. You’re the one who said _anything to keep the secret_ , remember? Last I checked, I’ve been following your lead on that for years, even when it meant letting Isobel think I was a goddamn murderer!” His hands are clenched into fists at his sides, and Michael deliberately pushes away from Alex and the table in case things get ugly. 

He’s ready and braced for a fight. Part of him is even looking forward to it; Michael’s still got a hell of a lot of anger where Max is concerned, most of it centered around the fact that he’d done exactly what Isobel and Michael had warned him not to. He’d decided he was a freaking deity and _sacrificed_ himself, leaving them torn apart and bleeding when they needed him. Michael’s hand, the fiasco with Noah, ten years of resentment — Michael’s practically salivating for a chance to swing at Max. Maybe then the restlessness that’s been crawling beneath his skin, making him unpredictable and reckless since Max’s death will finally be appeased. Maybe he’ll be able to let it all go, afterward, and function normally, like’s supposed to. 

Max doesn’t give him the chance to find out. His reply is strangely even, tinged with regret and something Michael can’t get a read on without pushing into his head. “I’m a lot of things, Michael, and we both know that not all of them are good, but I’d like to think I’m not that much of a hypocrite.”

It’s Alex who frowns and asks, “What do you mean?” when Michael just stares, still balancing precariously on the razor-thin line between cold silence and an explosion of temper. The wind’s been taken from his sails, though, and he wants to hear the answer to Alex’s question, so he says nothing.

Dark eyes glance between them, and Max huffs a disbelieving laugh and shakes his head. “Come on. Think about it. I should have given up on Liz a long, long time ago. If all I cared about was hiding the truth about what we are, I would never have gotten close enough to fall in love with her -- and I definitely wouldn’t have told her the truth when she came back, especially not after what happened to Rosa. Everytime we got closer, something awful happened, and it hurt _both_ of us. And being with her now, it’s still like dangling from a cliff.” 

There’s a fond nostalgia in the way he speaks, like he’s repeating words from Liz’s mouth with the incredulity of someone who still can’t quite believe he got the girl. “It’s not safe. It’s not easy. Every minute with Liz is like this incredible adrenaline rush, and I’m always wondering what’s going to happen when I finally crash, but I wouldn’t give her up for anything. Not even when Isobel begged me to find someone else. I knew that I couldn’t.” 

Max looks from Michael’s face to Alex’s, and the slightest hints of a smile tweak the corners of his lips. “So I’d say it’d be pretty damn hypocritical of me to tell _you_ to give up the love of your life when I’m not willing to do the same.” Max’s tall, broad body sags back against the kitchen wall, and he tips his head back against the panelling, staring up at the ceiling. “I don’t remember that night very well. Just feeling invincible, with all that power -- but I still _do_ think you need to let go of the past and stop reminding yourself of everything that hurt you. It’s impossible to move forward, carrying all of that weight with you, and it would have ruined any chance you had of making things work. That’s all I meant, Michael, I swear.” 

There’s a moment’s silence, and Max swallows before lifting his head to look back across the room at Michael again, apparently waiting for a response. He doesn’t get one -- at least, not from Michael. There’s too much going on in his head to even consider responding coherently; strong feelings always intensify the noise in his mind, turning his thoughts to chaos and threads of ideas impossible to untangle from one another. It’d made learning to speak as a child way more difficult than it should have been for someone as smart as Michael, and he still finds himself lapsing into silence from time to time. 

Max and Alex both know this about him, and no one presses. His boyfriend simply slides from his chair to stand behind him and wraps him in a warm, gentle embrace from behind, and rests his chin on Michael’s shoulder while he looks at Max, who’s still slumped against the wall, looking tired and significantly more concerned the longer the silence goes on. “Good,” he says, speaking for both of them while Michael tries to understand how he and Max could possibly misunderstand each other on such an epic level when they literally share a psychic connection. “Because I’m not leaving again, and things might have gotten pretty damn awkward if you were going to be an ass about it.” 

The blunt statement makes Michael laugh, and for the first time since entering Max’s house that night, he turns his head and presses a chaste kiss to the corner of his boyfriend’s mouth. It’s the first overt display of affection he’s made in front of Max and is suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that he’s been careful not to initiate much in the way of physical contact in front of his brother. Alex hasn’t said anything, and Michael knows he wouldn’t, whether it bothered him or not, but he’s immediately pissed at himself for the reluctance. Max’s opinion isn’t supposed to matter, whether real or _assumed_ , but apparently, Michael’s always going to care, at least a little, about what his brother thinks. 

It’s a galling realization, but it doesn’t seem quite as bad as it would have an hour ago. 

“Nah, he’ll just find something else to be an ass about,” Michael drawls a moment later, and Max makes a face at him, but it does nothing to disguise the relief in his expression. He’s been waiting for Michael to erupt, to yell and call him names, because that’s what they’ve done for ten years, and damn, it feels good to break that cycle. “Which is fine, because Max being nice usually ends in being a captive audience for Dostoyevsky read aloud, and I don’t think we need to be a part of his masturbatory fantasies, you know?” 

Max snorts, and Alex grins, the stretch of his smile obvious against Michael’s cheek. “Well, that explains some things about the books Liz has been carting around lately -- I _knew_ she didn’t randomly decide to pick up the most depressing book ever written,” he adds, the teasing clear in his voice. This close, Michael can almost feel the slight waver of worry that the joke won’t be well-received, that Max is going to snap at him again and all the progress they’ve just made will be ruined, but Michael isn’t worried. 

Used to the mocking comments, Max just rolls his eyes and grabs his plate from the counter, still half full of food, and shoves it in the microwave to reheat. “Great,” he tosses over his shoulder, loud enough for both of the other men to hear clearly. “Another brother who wants to take shots at my library. You’re going to have to get some new material, Manes, because Michael and Isobel have exhausted those jokes. You two deserve each other.” He sighs dramatically with a good-natured smile in their direction, then takes his steaming plate from the microwave before disappearing into the living room with it. Michael can’t decide if he’s giving them a much-needed moment alone or is really just that hungry, but he appreciates it anyway. Alex has frozen against his back, and they definitely do need a second to themselves. 

As soon as he hears the television turn on in the living room, Michael turns in Alex’s arms and presses his lips to the hinge of his jaw. “Now you’ve done it,” he says lightly, running a hand down Alex’s back soothingly. “He’s adopted you. You’re going to have to put up with all of that oblivious, overprotective bullshit just like the rest of us, and pretty soon you’ll be as crazy as me.” 

Alex huffs a disbelieving laugh, obviously bewildered by the twist the evening had taken. “I came here ready to fight with him all night,” he admits quietly, and casts a surreptitious glance over his shoulder, as if worried that Max is eavesdropping from the next room. “This is better. Even if it’s a little bizarre.” There’s a small, pleased smile on his face as he takes a step back from Michael and laces their hands together, and it remains as they heat up the remains of their own food and join Max in the living room to watch _Friends_ reruns with Isobel’s Netflix account. They don’t talk about anything difficult for the rest of the evening, reverting instead to teasing comments and character imitations, and Michael catches himself relaxing into the easy camaraderie of the evening. 

It’s not perfect, and maybe it never will be, but Michael thinks it’s a pretty damn good start to the family they’re trying to rebuild. 


End file.
